Right at the peak of the carnival’s last night, the storm broke, scattering the crowds. In seconds, the tempest cleared the village square of macho funk and competing sound systems as well as the skies over Cabelo Seco of the military helicopters that had scanned the community’s streets and River Tocantins’ walkway since the carnival began. We barely slept, moving buckets from our bedroom to kitchen, front room to hallway, as the wind changed direction and new leaks appeared in our tiled roof.
I mop the floor and open the window, catching sight of the river in the gap between two houses, which a year ago promised to become a new home for a headteacher, who was hoping to profit from the ‘revitalization of Marabá’. Like a missing front tooth, it attracts attention, accumulating symbolic power as the community’s riverside story changes behind it.
